Stanley Shannon's daughter was a year old when he was sent to prison on gun and drug charges.
He served his first year in a South Jersey facility far from his loved ones in Paterson and by the time Miabella turned 2, "she kinda didn't even know me," Shannon says.
As he nears the end of his sentence, just days away, Shannon recently finished a program he hopes will give him a fresh start in life and a chance to be the father his daughter needs.
He underwent laser tattoo removal.
Shannon is one of a growing group of inmates joining the state Department of Corrections' (DOC) tattoo removal program.
Every four to six weeks, these inmates travel to a doctor's office in North Jersey for laser removal treatments that most describe as more painful than getting their tattoo in the first place.
All agree the pain is worth it.
Here are two inmates' stories. Written by Matt Gray and photographed by Patti Sapone.
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Stanley Shannon, at The Harbor, a halfway house in Newark.
'I was young and impulsive' - Stanley Shannon
The DOC launched the program in 2017 as an effort to give ex-cons a better shot of successfully returning to society and finding steady work.
More than 50 inmates have participated.
The service is limited to inmates who have moved from prisons to halfway houses — officially known as residential community release programs — as they prepare for life on the outside.
"Tattoo removal is important in them becoming gainfully employed," explains Darcella Sessomes, assistant commissioner overseeing the DOC's Division of Programs and Community Services.
Tattoos on the face, hands and neck — places where the ink work would be easily seen by a potential employer — are the only ones removed through this service.
In order to qualify, inmates must prove they are serious about this opportunity.
"They have to complete an application indicating why they want their tattoos removed," Sessomes says. The applications are reviewed by a screening committee.
The reasons vary, she says.
"I was young and impulsive."
"I'm no longer that person."
"I want their name off my neck."
"I really didn't think it through. I wasn't thinking about jobs at the time."
The artwork they want removed may include anything from Mickey Mouse to dragons and wizards to Asian writings inmates can't even read, Sessomes says.
A DOC staffer heard about tattoo removal programs run from corrections departments in other states — California and Florida have them — and pitched the idea for New Jersey.
"I thought it was awesome," Sessomes says.
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Relax, taxpayers. You aren't footing the bill.
Halfway house inmates travel to appointments at doctor's offices where the DOC contracts for the removals. Depending on the size of the tattoo, completely removing it can mean many trips and treatments can run up to $200 a session.
Before you pitch a fit that your tax dollars are paying for this, take a breath.
It doesn't work that way.
The procedures are paid for through a special account designated solely for services that benefit inmates.
The money in that account comes from commissions paid to DOC for inmate use of the JPay system, a corrections-oriented service that allows inmates to transfer funds, send emails and conduct video visitations with loved ones. Inmates and the families communicating with them pay fees to use JPay.
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Stanley Shannon waits to be called in for his appointment.
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That tattoo was cool at first
As soft music plays in the waiting room at SOMA Skin & Laser in Millburn, Stanley Shannon waits patiently for another inmate to complete his treatment session. Each visit lasts only minutes.
The removal process hurts, but it isn't as painful as he thought it would, Shannon says.
He's getting a skull and wings tattoo lasered off his right hand. He was 16 when an aspiring artist friend did the work.
He has other tattoos, but this one stuck out because of its prominent location.
"Everybody thought it was cool at first, but then I noticed when I was working, people would stare at my hand. I never really cared at the time."
He's 31 now and his feelings have changed.
"It really doesn't mean anything to me anymore. It looks bad. People stare at it and they prejudge you. Hopefully it will be mostly gone before I go home."
He's due for release on Dec. 1 after serving about 3 ½ years.
Shannon says he's had a lot of time to think about his choices.
"My daughter's mother, she was always on me about doing certain things," he says.
She told him not to sell drugs.
"I thought that just making money was important, no matter how you got it. I always would have a job, but I always would sell drugs," Shannon says. "I thought the money was good. But what I was doing was wrong, because it just caused too many problems, not just in your life, but it affects other people."
He talks about the pain he felt when his daughter no longer remembered him. He's determined to never fail his family again.
"This is my first time in prison and it's gonna be my only time."
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Miabella, 4, left, talks with her inmate father Stanley Shannon, during a visit at The Harbor in Newark, a state Department of Corrections facility, in July 2019.
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'At that stage in my life I was rebellious' - Saquon Wilson
Saquon Wilson has an elaborate tattoo in black ink that wraps around the right side and back of his neck. In the middle of the swirling design is his nickname, "Sayso," as in, "because I say so."
"It's a nickname I've had since I was a child," he says. "Basically, I was spoiled and stubborn as a child."
The 31-year-old with a bushy beard and shaved head is serving the remaining months of a six-year sentence for burglary, theft and conspiracy to commit robbery.
He currently resides at Hope Hall in Camden, and is due for release in March 2020.
Growing up in Salem, Wilson decided at age 21 to get his only tattoo.
"I always wanted a tattoo and at that stage in my life I was rebellious," he said. "Nobody could tell me anything. I just did it as, I guess, a statement."
It took about two hours to apply and cost him $150. He gave the artist wide latitude.
"I actually told the guy, do what you want," Wilson says with a laugh. "Put my name there and do what you want."
The tattoo was his way to try and fit in.
"I guess it would be peer pressure in a sense. Wanting to be accepted amongst your peers. Even if those peers were negative ones. I ended up hanging out with them and doing some stupid stuff with them and I'm here and I don't hear from them at all."
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Saquon Wilson in Camden, in February 2019.
As he arrived for his second appointment at SOMA, Wilson summed up his feelings:
"Nervous."
He points to the photographer documenting his experience.
"I already asked her not to take my picture if I'm crying," he jokes. "No tears."
When he's called back for his appointment with Dr. Michael Ehrenreich, he asks for a stress ball.
Wilson's eyes aren't visible behind the orange-tinted protective glasses everyone in the room must wear during the treatments, but his body language proves it's not a pleasant experience. Just the same, he never actually seems to squeeze that stress ball.
A repeated, soft popping sound is heard as ink particles shatter under the laser.
An assistant holds one hose blowing air to cool the area being treated and another that sucks up any ink fumes and the faint odor of burned hairs. The singed hairs on Wilson's neck are white after the treatment and the skin that's just been treated is temporarily swollen.
Professional inks take longer to remove, Ehrenreich explains, while amateur tattoos are easier to erase.
He's confident about Wilson's treatments. "I think that we would expect a good result here," he says.
Wilson is upbeat as he removes his protective glasses, the session over.
"Sore, but I'm good. It wasn't as bad as the first time. Plus I didn't want to look soft in front of the cameras," he says with a grin.
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Dr. Michael Ehrenreich, left, works on Saquon Wilson during a treatment in July 2019.
About that popping sound …
The science of tattoo removal via laser has grown more refined over the years, Ehrenreich says.
Different ink colors absorb different wavelengths of light, so the laser's frequency is adjusted to deal with a variety of colors. While black ink is the easiest to remove, light blue is one of the most difficult, he says.
Black tattoos on dark skin pose a special challenge. "Wavelengths of light that interact with these inks will also interact strongly with dark skin," he says, so the key is to work slowly in order to avoid skin damage.
"You're trying to shatter the ink, but the ink doesn't just vaporize and disappear," Ehrenreich explains. "Our goal is to pulverize this into small pieces and then the body's natural systems can help to clear it."
A white frosting develops on the skin immediately after treatment, which is a temporary effect from skin dehydration.
And what about that popping sound?
"That's the laser energy being absorbed by the ink and then being converted into acoustic energy," Ehrenreich says. "It's like an explosion."
Everyone who comes through his door has a different reaction to the pain. Some describe it as feeling like a rubber band snapped on your skin over and over. Others compare it to an electrical shock.
"This is not a comfortable procedure. Most people will say it hurts more than getting a tattoo," Ehrenreich acknowledges as he takes a short break between appointments.
Some, like Wilson and Shannon, deal with it well.
"Then you've got these guys coming in looking like they're the worst bad-ass in the prison block and they're the biggest babies," he says. "I think for a lot of people, these face tattoos or these visible tattoos are advertising. You're in a situation where there are a lot of bad people and you want to look tough. And it might be the people that are in fact least tough that feel the need to advertise.
"I do find that a lot of the guys that you think would be tough and would just sit and bear it, they don't."
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The progress on Stanley Shannon's hand, left with the removal, and on the right before removal started.
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'See Me for Me'
Kerry Pimentel, head of the contract administration section in DOC's office of community programs, is the employee who came up with the idea for New Jersey's tattoo removal program.
During a meeting to review disciplinary charges against inmates, she spotted two men with tattoos between their eyebrows and wondered how they would ever find jobs.
Pimentel researched the subject and was inspired by the non-profit Fresh Start Tattoo Removal Program.
The nationwide initiative helps former inmates, gang members and human trafficking survivors with removal of prominent tattoos. Fresh Start partners with doctors who provide free or reduced-cost services.
Armed with her research, she pitched the idea to her colleagues.
"This was just an unmet re-entry need," Pimentel says. "It was very important to me that these returning offenders are seen for who they are, without the anti-social perception of the tattoos."
That led her to the title of the program, "See Me for Me."
Men aren't the only ones seeking this service.
Pimentel recalled a powerful application letter from an inmate who wanted to have her "prostitute name" and a pair of lips removed from the bottom of her neck. She had been pimped out and abused and every time she looked in a mirror it was a reminder.
"That was the most moving application I had read," Pimentel says.
While male applicants tend to focus on the embarrassment of their tattoos, applications from women tend to offer personal details like these, she said.
She wonders how that inmate fared and hopes a follow-up program will eventually allow DOC to track the impact of the removal effort.
While Pimentel knew the program was necessary, she was surprised by the amount of interest it received. They received 46 applications in the first three months.
Based on the DOC's success, the state Juvenile Justice Commission, which houses juvenile offenders, has now adopted the tattoo removal program as well.
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Stanley Shannon during a removal session in June 2019.
Why is this program even needed?
Inmates need a chance to repair their lives, Ehrenreich believes.
"There should be a distinction between crimes and criminals," he says. "A crime is a thing that you do. A criminal is presumably an identity of who you are. You have to believe that the vast majority of people that have done things wrong that are incarcerated … that they can change if given the right opportunity."
Statistics show that halfway houses work in reducing recidivism.
Fifty-one percent of released state inmates are re-arrested within three years, while 38 percent are re-convicted and 30 percent are re-incarcerated, according to DOC figures.
When it comes to inmates who completed work release programs through halfway houses, however, recidivism rates were lower, with 41 percent re-arrested, 26.5 percent re-convicted and 14.8 percent re-incarcerated.
Tattoo removal is one more way to improve their chances.
"The benefits to the offender as well as to the community are innumerable," Sessomes believes. "We want to help as many who are really interested in receiving this service as we can, as long as our funding can support it."
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Saquon Wilson during a July 2019 treatment.
'I've got to catch up' - Saquon Wilson
While he serves his remaining time, Saquon Wilson also works six days a week running a front-end loader at a metal recycling business in Camden. He has other plans for his future, though.
"I want to get my bachelor's degree and become a software engineer and bump shoulders with those tech guys and be around that environment," he says.
Wilson had earned college credits, but his plans were sidelined when he got in trouble with the law. He had plenty of time to ponder his goals and think about completing his education.
"After sitting and thinking for all those years, I kind of want to get back in the swing of things and finish," he said.
He's reading a software engineering book during his free time.
With technology always advancing, he's concerned about staying on top of his chosen field. Plenty has changed since he's been incarcerated.
"I've got to catch up," he says. "It's changing fast."
And this goal brought him to a decision about his "Sayso" tattoo.
"I can have all the education … but I have to look presentable," he says. "I have to look the part. Having a tattoo splattered on my neck isn't professional or presentable. So it's a necessary step I need to take to further my education so I can have a better life."
His family was thrilled to hear he was getting it removed.
"They didn't believe there was a program like this," he said.
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Saquon Wilson in Camden, February 2019.
Wilson credits an older cousin, Anwar J. Golden, as an important influence in his life.
"Saquon is extremely intelligent," says Golden, assistant principal and athletic director at Penns Grove High School. "He's a really smart young man."
He recalls counseling Wilson prior to getting his tattoo.
"I always told him, don't get any visible tattoos. I told him it was gonna be tough to find a job with that. You don't want to start behind the 8-ball."
Most participants in the program have similar advice for those considering their first tattoo.
"I would say if you're going to do it, get it where you can actually cover it up," Wilson says. "If you're going to be rebellious and want to get tatted all up, just get it where you can actually wear long sleeves or something that you can cover up just in case you have something that comes along in your life where you have to look presentable to employers or anybody. Really think carefully."
Now, Wilson has to focus on the future, Golden says.
"We can't think about what happened. We have to think about the next steps," he says. "You've served your time. You've paid your debt to society."
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Miabella, 4, second from left, talks with her father Stanley Shannon during a visit at The Harbor in Newark. Ashley Perez, Miabella's mother, left, and Stanley's sister Briana Shannon, listen.
'I'm acting my age' - Stanley Shannon
After months of treatments, Shannon's hand tattoo is nearly gone.
Between his browline glasses and the beginnings of gray hair on his temples, he looks the part of an older, wiser man.
That wisdom shows when he talks about those who stuck by him and what he wants to do next.
He says his mom, two sisters and his daughter's mother are his biggest supporters.
"They're happy. I'm acting my age and trying to do something different."
He's working on his relationship with Miabella's mother and says he's thankful she didn't give up on him.
"She's been there for me since I went to prison," Shannon says. "She never cut me off."
Shannon travels from a halfway house in Newark to a job at a grocery store where he works in the bakery. He studied culinary arts in school and worked at another bakery prior to his arrest.
"I just want to take all of that and put it to use and see where it takes me," he says. He hopes to open a restaurant one day and support his family. He'd also like to give back by using his talents to feed those in need.
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Miabella, 4, talks with her father Stanley Shannon, during a visit at The Harbor.
Miabella turned 4 in March and knows her dad again, thanks to regular phone calls and occasional visits to the halfway house.
As a recent visit begins, Miabella greets her father with a cheerful cry of "Daddy!" accompanied by a big hug.
Her mom, Ashley Perez, says fatherhood brought out positive changes in Shannon.
"His daughter changed him a lot," she says. "I've known him for a long time, but I never saw him get emotional or show feelings until we had our daughter."
The family plays a rousing game of rock, paper, scissors and all eyes are on Miabella. Her laughter fills the room as she shows off her sign-language skills and tells dad about watching Fourth of July fireworks.
Perez never wanted Shannon's troubles to derail his relationship with Miabella.
"I thought it was important for her to always see her father," she says. "Regardless of our differences, he is a great father and he does what he can for her. And she loves him.
"I want her to know that she has both parents in her life."
Miabella is excited for her father to come home.
"She always tells me she wants me to come to her house," Shannon says. He tells her that he will be there soon.
Miabella has decided that the halfway house is a school for her father.
"What am I in school for?" he recalls asking her.
"To learn how to be a better daddy for me," she answered.
Shannon smiles proudly at the memory.
"She just came up with that."
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Stanley Shannon in his room at The Harbor.
Matt Gray can be reached at mgray@njadvancemedia.com. Follow him on Twitter @MattGraySJT.
Patti Sapone may be reached at psapone@njadvancemedia.com. Follow her on Twitter: @psapone.
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